He passed a moose and a calf, munching weeds in a pond. Then up ahead he saw something dead in the road. Antelope or deer, maybe. It was too torn up to recognize. There was a young eagle ripping into the belly, spilling intestines onto the road. Hawley swerved around, and as he did, the eagle took flight. Hawley watched in the rearview as the bird circled, its wings spread like fingers, then the eagle landed and continued its meal.
He drove for an hour and never passed another car. Twice he dozed, waking up just as the truck was veering off into the brush. He drank more of the coffee and ate one of Lily’s sandwiches, and then he came to the bridge where the highway ended. Before he crossed, Hawley saw the sign for Childs Glacier. He took a left and followed a narrow dirt road along the south side of the river to a parking lot. There was only one car parked there under the trees, an old Chevy Silverado. Hawley slowed the truck and idled a few spaces away. There was no one in the Silverado, but the back was covered with bumper stickers. IT’S CALLED TOURIST SEASON: WHY CAN’T WE SHOOT THEM?; JESUS IS COMING—LOOK BUSY; and WHAT IF THE HOKEY POKEY IS WHAT IT’S ALL ABOUT?
Hawley parked the truck. He found the bottle of whiskey under the seat and took a few more pulls. He read the bumper stickers again. If things went wrong and he had to kill the man who owned the Silverado, he could deliver the package, get his payment from Jove and still keep the aluminum case. With each sip of whiskey the idea took stronger shape in his mind, until he’d imagined every detail, from the grizzled lowlife no one would miss, to the moment when Lily laughed as Hawley dumped the money across their bed.
Hawley made sure his guns were loaded. Then he opened the lunch bag and took out the note. He’d folded and refolded it so many times on the ferry that the crease had grown soft, and now the paper came apart in two pieces, the one that said It’s and the other that said a girl. Hawley thought about Lily writing the words. He put the half that said It’s back in the bag. He took the half that said a girl and slipped it into his front pocket. Then he got out of the car.
The parking lot was deserted, so he made his way toward the marked trail. There were several signs about grizzly bears, and another that warned people about tidal waves. Hawley stepped from the tree line and down a deep slope. From there he could see the glacier, looming on the opposite shore.
He’d seen icebergs since moving to Alaska, but this was something completely different. This was where icebergs were born. The glacier was a giant, rippling wall of blue ice, over three hundred feet high and three miles long, with the Copper River churning at the base—a marvel of gravity, pressure and time. The shelf moved each day, bit by bit across the mountains, and eventually broke off—calved—into the water below, creating instant tsunamis. Hawley had read about a few lunatics who’d tried to ride the giant waves on surfboards. Two had been crushed beneath a chunk of ice. The Forest Service had cordoned off the river downstream but they never found the bodies.
There were two women waiting along the shore of the beach, dressed like hikers. They had boots and packs, a tent and walking poles—the kind people used to climb mountains. One of the women had a camera set up with a zoom lens on a tripod, and the other was standing and watching the glacier with a pair of binoculars, her hair in pigtails. She was a little old to be wearing pigtails, Hawley thought. It made her look like a teenager from a distance, but as he got closer he could tell she was somewhere between forty and fifty. She was built, though. Thick shoulders and muscled, ropey arms. Skin weathered and toned. She looked like she’d lived her whole life outdoors. The other woman was young, maybe twenty, and had a military buzz cut and a tattoo of a crow on the back of her neck.
“Here for the view?” the woman with pigtails said.
“Nope,” said Hawley.
“I guess you’re meeting us, then.”
They were both carrying. Hawley could see the bulge underneath the tattooed girl’s shirt where the handgun was tucked into her jeans. There was a rifle next to the tripod, and the older woman with the pigtails picked it up and set the gun into the crook of her arm like it had been made to live there.
Behind them came the sound of thunder. A cracking and splitting of air. Hawley could feel the boom in his chest, the rumble of an approaching storm. He glanced up but the sky was clear. Not a cloud overhead or in the distance.
“We’ve been here for an hour,” said the tattooed girl. “There’s been some avalanching, but the glacier hasn’t calved yet.”
“It’ll break soon,” said the woman.
“I want to get a picture,” said the girl.
“You will,” said the woman.
She put her hand on the crow tattoo and rubbed the girl’s neck. The way she did this made Hawley realize they were lovers. Then the girl shrugged off the woman’s touch. She did it like she was trying not to, the same way that Hawley had pulled away from Lily when they’d said goodbye.
He felt for the Magnum in his pocket. He said, “Steller?”
“That’s right,” said the older woman.
“I’ve got your money.”
“That’s what I like to hear.”
Hawley went back to the truck and retrieved the suitcase. He rolled it across the gravel. It made a lot of noise, so he grabbed the handle and carried it the rest of the way onto the beach. He flipped the case onto the rocks. “You can count it if you want,” he said.
“Don’t mind if I do.”
Steller put her rifle down, then came forward and unzipped the case. The girl hung by the tent and kept her eyes on Hawley and a loose hand on her gun. She had a pretty face, but her body was too thin. She had another tattoo of a bird, between her thumb and forefinger. She scratched her chin and the bird looked like it was flying.
Every once in a while there’d be another popping sound, like distant gunfire, and Steller would stop counting the money and glance over at the massive shelf of ice. Whenever she did, Hawley found himself looking, too.
“The Tlingit call it ‘white thunder,’?” said Steller.
“The glacier?” Hawley asked.
“No,” said Steller, “the sound the glacier makes when it breaks.”
She was crouched at Hawley’s feet, rifling through the suitcase. He looked down at the part in her hair. There was a small area at the back of her head that was starting to go bald. The skin there was red from the sun and covered with brown spots. Hawley imagined putting the barrel of his gun there. He tried to shake the thought, but the idea haunted him the whole time she was counting the money.
Steller zipped the suitcase back together. Then she extended the handle and tried to wheel the bag across the beach. The aluminum banged against the rocks and wedged itself between two large boulders. It made Hawley think of Mabel Ridge, her giant roller-bag stuck between cars at the train station.
Hawley helped the woman get the case loose. “What kind of name is Steller?”
“My father was a scientist. He named me after Georg Steller. You know, the sea cow?”
Hawley shook his head.
“First white man to step foot in Alaska. But the sea cow is why he’s famous. Discovered the last ones, right before they went extinct.”
“He doesn’t give a shit about Steller,” said the girl.
The older woman shot the girl a look. She tugged at one of her pigtails.